


Claim My Hurt (And Turn It To Gold)

by Bennyhatter



Series: Feral [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Animalistic, Biting, Bloodshed, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally Repressed, Feral Behavior, Friendship/Love, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Making Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 02:23:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18511957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bennyhatter/pseuds/Bennyhatter
Summary: Restlessness burns under his skin, leaving him pulled tighter than a bowstring. Keith can feel the aggression snapping just below the surface, his best coping mechanism for the guilt and uncertainty churning in his gut.





	Claim My Hurt (And Turn It To Gold)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hey what the heck, it looks like I'm back with more feral boys stuff. Guh.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who read and commented on the last piece I posted! It was my first try at writing for this fandom.
> 
> Apparently this is going to be a series. So I should do something about that. Hnngh.
> 
> Enjoy, y'all! Mind the tags!

Restlessness burns under his skin, leaving him pulled tighter than a bowstring. Keith can feel the aggression snapping just below the surface, his best coping mechanism for the guilt and uncertainty churning in his gut. Even sparring with the castle's gladiator isn't helping, because if it manages to best Keith then it's trained to automatically power down, and honestly, that's so far from what he needs right now.

 

Stalking through the castle's hallways, his skin prickling and shuddering, Keith grits his teeth until his jaws ache and his head throbs, hunting for something he doesn't know how to name. When he hears familiar voices, he almost turns around, until the lower rumble of one voice in particular stops him.

 

_Shiro._

 

Shiro always knows what he needs. Whether it's quiet, or something to fight against that won't back down -- a gentle voice or a comforting touch. Shiro _always_ knows.

 

Keith slips around the corner on silent feet, creeping along the wall so as not to interrupt. Shiro's back is to him, his arms crossed over his chest despite the relaxed tension in his shoulders -- because their leader never truly lets his guard down. He's speaking quietly with Allura, his voice warm, but when Keith takes another soundless step closer, he cuts himself off mid-sentence.

 

Allura's expression shifts from fond to concerned at his abrupt silence, her blue eyes gentle until they flick past Shiro to land on Keith. He hunches instinctively, a street mutt spotted by something _better,_ and tries not to let the cutting hurt show when Allura's open expression slams shut at the sight of him. She turns almost immediately and walks away, giving Shiro a goodbye that is spiked through with ice that never pierces the leader of Voltron.

 

She doesn't look back.

 

Keith grits his teeth harder, his hackles bristling, and turns to stalk back toward the training room. Power-down be damned, he'll level up that fucking gladiator until it breaks, or he does.

 

“Keith.”

 

_Fuck_. Shiro is so quiet when he wants to be, crossing the space between them without a sound. His breath is hot against Keith's nape, making him shiver from the sensation. Before the older Paladin can touch him, he jerks away with a snarl and whirls to bare his teeth at his friend.

 

“Careful,” he spits, bitter and angry and _hurting_. “You can never trust a _Galra._ ”

 

Shiro rumbles, storms brewing behind his vison. He shoves Keith, the wall solid against the red Paladin's back, and pins him in place with his right hand -- his Galra arm.

 

“Give her time,” he says, his gentleness at odds with his actions. It grates against something in Keith, makes him want to lash out all the more, and he knows that Shiro can see it burning in his eyes. The man lets out a breath, contemplation swirling amidst dark gray thunderclouds.

 

After a moment, he nods and steps back. “Alright.”

 

Keith growls, nails digging into his gloved palms. “'Alright’, _what_?”

 

He knows what Shiro means just as much as Shiro knows what he needs. It's their own little language, one they've never needed to speak because they can read each other better than anyone else can. That doesn't mean that Keith is anywhere close to being in an agreeable mood.

 

Part of him knows that it isn't fair of him to take this out on Shiro, to drag his best friend into the chaotic miasma that is his emotions. The rest of him knows that it _has_ to be Shiro, because no one else can contain Keith. No one can bring him down and diffuse the explosion roiling under his skin, leaking free from every little crack until it gains enough momentum for him to rupture.

 

“Walk,” Shiro says quietly, still infuriatingly contained and composed. He takes off his helmet and sets it down right there on the floor, crouching to make sure it's unharmed. Keith follows him with dark eyes, feeling the urge to _destroy_ sparking in his fingertips. Shiro meets his glare with blazing eyes, standing just as slowly and shifting his weight.

 

“Walk,” he growls.

 

Keith snarls. “Fuck you.”

 

Thunder roars in Shiro's chest, the storm unleashed, and Keith thinks, _finally_.

 

“Then _run,_ ” Shiro growls, his Galra arm glowing.

 

Hissing, Keith lunges, barely ducking beneath the swipe Shiro aims at his chest. He knows -- he _knows_ \-- that Shiro will never hurt him badly. Never more than he can handle. He knows it just as intimately as he knows his Lion.

 

Right now, Keith wants to be hurt. He pushes, snarling and snapping with each swing, every kick; each thud and the resonating agony when Shiro's human hand lands a solid hit somewhere sensitive. He lets himself be pushed down the hallway, holding his ground and giving back just as good as he's getting, until Shiro is forcing him through the doors of the training room and onto the mats.

 

Keith pants, licking away a smear of blood from the back of his glove. Shiro is bleeding from a cut above his left eye, a sight that makes him look just as wild as Keith feels. He watches, pacing and growling, as Shiro powers down his arm. Kicks himself free of his Paladin armor. Drags his shirt off and throws it. Keith claws out of his jacket and boots, hurling them toward the side of the room without ever looking away from the hurricane that is his leader.

 

When Keith leaps, Shiro meets him.

 

It's not a pretty fight. There's nothing graceful or refined about it. They aren't sparring to improve their skills -- they're _fighting_. It's feral, and messy, both of them clawing and biting and snarling as they roll across the mat. Shiro is bigger than he'll ever be, but Keith earned his legacy by destroying cadets who assumed he was weak just because he was small.

 

Shiro's blood is thick and rich in his mouth, coating his teeth and dripping down his chin. He bites harder into the man's bicep, wrenching his head like he's planning to rip a chunk of flesh free to take with him. Shiro roars, loud enough to shake the room, and slams the side of his curled hand into Keith's head. It's enough to stun him, dizziness a sickening lurch that makes the world spin. He's still growling, but his jaw goes just slack enough for Shiro to rip himself free and send them rolling the other way.

 

There's blood all over the mat. Keith can feel the painful pull down his side with each heaving breath. Shiro's teeth have left their mark just as much as his fists, and Keith has returned the favor. No doubt, they're going to need the healing pods when this is over, but at least their Lions understand enough not to tear the castle apart to come to them.

 

They need to work this out on their own.

 

Shiro swats at him again, hitting the same spot with deadly accuracy, and Keith's snarl twists into a pained yelp. He can't get his eyes to focus, pain and confusion weakening him enough that he can't fight back when Shiro rolls him over. Growling, the black Paladin pins him to the mat, digging his nails in so his palms don't slip through the streaks of blood and sweat.

 

Bared teeth press against the nape of Keith's neck. “Yeild,” Shiro commands, his words cracking like lightning and echoed by rumbles of thunder from deep in his chest.

 

“Sh… Shiro,” Keith growls, palms flat in submission and back arched. He turns to glare, lips pulled back to bare his teeth.

 

“Yeild,” Shiro hisses, his Galra arm whirring to life.

 

“Fuck you.”

 

Those teeth grind against his nape -- a warning and a promise. A question.

 

_I can. I won't. Unless?_

 

Bracing his palms against the slippery mat, Keith slams his head back and grins, savage and satisfied, when he feels the pain of the impact.

 

A broad hand tangles in his hair, slamming him back down. He bites his tongue, tastes fresh blood and agonizing freedom, and spits the red mist victoriously.

 

Shiro's teeth sink into his nape, and Keith's world explodes like a dying star.

 

\---

 

Gentle fingers comb the matted knots from his hair, coaxing him back from the black nothingness he's been drifting through. Keith whines quietly, feeling the drag of Shiro's tongue across his bared skin as he's cleaned up. He cracks an eye open, blinking through the bleariness, and finally focuses on the dark gray eyes watching him.

 

Shiro pauses, licking blood from his mouth. “Better?” he asks quietly, dropping his head to nuzzle the dark bruise blooming over Keith's hip before he can answer. Keith shudders, arching into the affection, and nods.

 

“Yeah,” he rasps, his voice ruined. Swallowing, he feels the painful scrape of too much emotion all the way down and tries again. “Thank you.”

 

Shiro noses his way back up to look him in the eye, patient and loose-limbed while Keith licks his face clean. He hesitates at the cut above the dark eyebrow, his mind hissing _Galra_ at him until Shiro's soothing rumble brings him back down.

 

They really are a mess of bites and bruises, but Keith feels like he can breathe again. The hurt is still there, but it's manageable. The anger is a glowing ember, all its fuel burned to ash; it will take time to build back into an inferno. For now, he's as relaxed as he can be; able to curl against Shiro and tuck his head beneath his friend's chin, both of them shirtless and missing shoes, only their pants left to preserve their dignity.

 

Not that Keith would mind if those were gone too. Shiro chuffs against his temple like he heard the thought, pressing closer and urging Keith down onto a clean sliver of the mat. Keith lets himself be moved, breathing steadily while Shiro curls over him and licks dried blood off his chin.

 

“We talked about this, Keith,” Shiro says quietly after a comfortable stretch of silence. He sounds guilty, but mostly he just sounds worried. “You agreed.”

 

“It's been a rough few days,” Keith grumbles, but that's no excuse. There's been plenty of free moments to ask; he's just ignored them all.

 

“So...” He drags his fingers through Shiro's hair, determined to change the subject. “I'm… Galra. At least partially.”

 

Shiro purrs against the shell of his ear, no doubt able to feel the way Keith trembles beneath him from the ticklish pleasure of it.

 

“You're Keith,” he replies simply, licking across Keith's mouth. It should be disgusting, but it's _not_. He chases Shiro when he leaves, whining until he's given permission to return the favor. His friend's mouth tastes like blood and ozone, leaving his tongue tingling when he pulls back. Shiro cups his head, tender and thoughtful as he follows Keith down.

 

It's not a proper kiss -- they're too wild for that. They lick and nuzzle, making pleased little sounds to and for each other. Somehow, it's still better than any first kiss with Shiro that Keith could have ever imagined.

 

“Ready for the healing pods?” his friend asks once they've stopped grooming and moved on to just nuzzling. Shiro's nose is tucked behind his ear, so close to the bite still bleeding sluggishly on his nape. Keith hums, feeling so light he could float away.

 

“Do we have to?”

 

Shiro chuckles quietly. “No, but it might be a little difficult to explain to the others why we look like our Lions used us as chew toys.”

 

The others means _Allura_ too. Keith squirms, whining until Shiro's hand strokes from collarbone to hip. The touch settles him, but Keith still curls as close as he can get, pressing his face beneath the other man's jaw.

 

“Just a little longer?” he asks, knowing he's begging but too wrung-out to care. Maybe he'll berate himself over it later, if he cares enough.

 

“Of course.” Shiro kisses between his eyes, lips warm and curled into a smile.

 

“Whatever you need, Keith.”

 

He's never realized before just how much that sounds like someone else's _I love you_.

 

Smiling, he nuzzles closer to his friend, breathing in his scent. He feels better than he has in far too long.

 

“Thank you, Shiro.”

 

_I love you, too._


End file.
